


Festival night dream

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 14:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: Finwë has convinced his eldest son to sleep in the palace on Festival's eve... and Fëanor receives a surprise in his room.





	Festival night dream

Fëanor moved on the bed, kicking the sheet mechanically until it was just a tangle around his ankles. Despite only wearing loose breeches of lightweight cloth, a slight perspiration covered his skin and moistened the roots of the hair at the nape and temples. Built so that the light of the trees burst as little as possible into the palatial bedrooms, the royal residence was much warmer than the hacienda of Formenos and Fëanor slept uncomfortably in what was his youth room whenever he agreed to the requirements of his father. This time, Finwë had insisted that his eldest son stay in the palace during the flowering of Telperion so that he would already be there when the harvest party started the next day. Finwë rarely managed to get all his children to be in the palace for the festivities so he would not miss the coincidence that led Fëanor to go through the palace just the eve of the Festival.  


Fëanor loved to please his father - and he loved the irritation that caused his half-brothers to see the Noldóran beg him to stay, to tell him that without him the party would not be complete - but as he shifted in bed, huffing from the heat, he remembered why he did not spend more time in his father's house.  


After nearly two hours of spinning, Fëanor finally fell into a restless sleep, barely relieved by the weak current of air that came from the outside through the ventilation ducts built between the walls. Towards the hour of Telperion's splendor, Fëanor awoke with the feeling that someone had entered the room; nevertheless, the arrangement of the rooms plunged the place into a gloom similar to that found in the caves that were submerged in the bowels of the earth. For a few seconds, he tried to make out something in the deep shadows that surrounded him; but, not receiving confirmation of his suspicions, he fell back into the pillows, cursing the heat between his teeth.  


A damp touch, too fresh to go unnoticed, ran along the back of his neck as delicate fingers pushed back the loose hair. The prince growled from the back of his throat, noticing that he was face down on the bed. He moved, lifting his hips slightly ... and his butt collided with something behind him.  


Soon he woke up: something not, "someone". Instinctively, he extended a hand to the table next to the bed to find one of the hand lamps that he designed to use in the mines.  


He did not reach his goal: a hand encircled his wrist, holding him back and again the wet ride climbed the back of his neck to the base of his ear. A tongue. The comprehension tightened his stomach just as the soft lips gripped the earlobe.  


Fëanor squeezed his eyelids, trying to recognize his visitor, who slid a hand down the side of his body, drawing the muscles to the angle of the hip. Two fingers traced the edge of his nightclothes until the slight collapse of the spine and rose to the neck, unleashing a chill in the very center of the craftsman.  


A choked gasp escaped from Fëanor's tight lips and a muffled laugh floated above him.  


_Aldarion?_ He asked himself inwardly, evoking the image of the young groom. No, too daring to sneak up to the lounges of the royal family. The waiter was too shy to venture in this way ... and start seduction on his own.  


The kisses that came down his column distracted Fëanor from his deductions. The hand that encircled his wrist loosened and caressed his forearm, reveling in the hardness of tendons and flesh, tapping on the inside of the elbow before climbing the defined biceps and pressing lightly on the curve of the shoulder. Fëanor arched, lifting the head of the pillow as if to free himself from the body of the other. A sound of surprise escaped him: the last kiss pressed on the slope that led to his rear, wetting the thin fabric of the hose. Fingers pulled gently from the waistband of the piece and now the mouth pressed into his left buttock before the teeth played and nibbled.  


Fëanor gave a start and turned on himself, sitting up halfway to look for his guest. At first, his hands caught the void.  


"Are you playing hide and seek?" he growled between teeth.  


There was no answer and Fëanor almost thought he had frightened him ... until his right foot touched something on the edge of the bed. Out of sheer instinct, he lunged for his prey. His fingers slid through an abundant limp mane.  


_Loremir?_ He tried again to identify his companion: those hair without waves reminded him of the exquisite golden mane of the nephew of Findis's husband. While recalling the image of the vanya only covered by his golden mane, the other male slipped from his grip, moving away to the end of the bed. Or at least that meant Fëanor before launching after him.  


When he reached his destination, he found nothing and instead, fingers touched his shoulder, provocative. He turned on himself and jumped after him. Nothing. A low, deep laugh rumored in the darkness.  


_It is definitely not Loremir._ Understanding shot his heart. That laugh could not belong to the effeminate poet.  


Fëanor continued to chase the faint sounds - the rustle of a sheet, a ragged breath, a laugh like a purr - moving over the bed with the agility of a cat; but he only managed to touch a slender leg, a firm hip, a muscular arm. The game had burned the prince's blood and his sex pressed the clothes, thrusting. He had enjoyed many variations of sex with lovers of both genders; but this "hunt" was novel and exciting. Finally, his hand became entangled with another. The fingers of the mysterious visitor were intertwined with his and for a few minutes - despite the anxiety unleashed on the body of the craftsman - only caressed each other at that point, thumbs rubbing the back of the hands while they continued palm to palm.  


Fëanor was the first to pull... and again the deep, virile laughter rolled in the darkness and in his bones like a song of power. The other did not move; but he threw in his turn. Fëanor did not let himself be dragged and tried strength. His partner countered and this time Fëanor was ripped from his position to fall against a hard body ... and as awake as his.  


Unlike him, his visitor was gloriously naked and Fëanor's free hand ran across his broad chest, stopping with surprise at the metal rings that adorned his nipples. For a few seconds, he played with the jewels and then, down the flat abdomen to find the column of flesh that stood proud. Instinctively, the prince swallowed, tracing the limb with his fingers from the base to the tip. Slowly, he pulled back the meat hood and discovered the smooth, hot tip. A hiss of approval welcomed his movements. Fëanor moistened his lips, fighting the urge to descend and take it in his mouth. Instead, he encircled the cock with his hand and gave several rough caresses. He felt the movement with which the other arched in his touch; but no recognizable sound escaped the visitor's lips.  


Just a few moments later, the stranger's hand closed over Fëanor's, slowing his movements. Firmly, he pushed him away and led him until Fëanor lay back among the pillows, but this time on his back.  


The loose hair brushed his face and the sinking of the mattress beside him - which betrayed him that the other was leaning on the outstretched arms - found that his hair was much longer than the average of the Noldor. His mind went blank as he tried to remember someone with such a hair.  


The lips that covered his drowned the thoughts. Fëanor opened his mouth and offered his tongue to suck and bite as the other male moved over him, causing his erect sex to brush Fëanor's with each swing. The kiss lasted until the artisan's lungs burned with need and then his lover moved away only to kiss and lick his throat, his shoulder.  


Fëanor bent backwards, offering himself without reservation to the mouth that traversed his torso, punished first one nipple and then another, bit under the ribs, licked the navel, sucked on the pelvis ... The lover's hands grabbed the hose and pulled gently . Fëanor got up on his heels to facilitate the work. The mouth kissed again and nibbled along the legs - the left one as he slid the piece of clothing off, the right one as he ascended back. The teeth tempted the union of the thigh and the torso before descending bordering the pelvis.  


Fëanor threw back his head when lips brushed his testicles before traversing them with warm licks. Fëanor's cock stirred, eager; but the other male ignored it as he sucked and bit with controlled force.  


A moan erupted from Fëanor's throat as a long lick climbed his cock. Instinctively, he clung to the sheets, squeezing his eyelids. Again the tongue drew the thick axis and this time, it was delayed by contouring the tip. The mouth closed around the head, sucking almost tenderly until precum droplets sprouted. Then, the lover opened his mouth wider and took it halfway, retreated almost to abandon and devoured him with a single skilled movement.  


Fëanor felt the world break in his head. His mysterious lover was dedicated to give him pleasure with his mouth and by the valar!, he had the most skilled mouth of all Tirion. Each time a little deeper, the tongue pressed and wrapped, the lips tightened and sucked, the teeth teased... Fëanor let himself be carried away: he entangled his fingers in his long hair and used them as reins to control the thrusts. First, it was the other who fucked him with his mouth; but afterwards, he was fucking that ingenious mouth, overcoming the muscles of the throat that pressed his cock almost painfully, sinking as deep as possible, feeling the pressure of nose on his pelvis and chin on his testicles ... and suddenly he was coming with the impetus of a teenager, panting to sting his throat, moaning loudly, his toes curling in the sheets as his back arched to the impossible.  


The orgasm drained his strength until he wasn’t able to untangle the fingers from the straight hair.  
His lover moved away, placing a soft kiss on his hip before moving over him. Fëanor felt how he adjusted to his height and naturally, looked for the half-open mouth to kiss him languidly. Against his belly, his lover's cock pulsed still unsatisfied.  


He did not even wince when the fingers descended between his buttocks, brushing his entrance. At another time, he probably would have protested, reminding his partner that Míriel's son was not a suburban harlot to be taken at the first time; but at this moment his brain was unable to function fully. He shuddered, uncomfortable, when the index crawled inside him to the second phalanx. The other male continued kissing him, making him taste himself with long licks and sensual bites, and meanwhile, the finger came and went, preparing his passage, massaging and drawing circles. At the end, a second finger joined the exploration, and then a third. Fëanor was already moving impatiently, swaying in possession, thrusting fingers that curved and opened with the same vehemence that the mouth attacked in his. With a hiss of approval, the lover withdrew his hand, leaving an unpleasant emptiness in the prince; however, immediately, the hard end of his cock pressed the entrance of Fëanor. With a snarl of discomfort, the craftsman spread his legs further, lifting them to encircle his waist and let his lover push harder.  


_More. Deeper. Harder._ The glorious column of warm flesh, hard and silky at the same time, tensed and dilated, moving with each attack. Delirious gasps drowned Fëanor's ear and neck, telling him of the effort his partner was making not to penetrate him with a blow and let go. A strangled cry tore Fëanor's voice when an onslaught filled him completely, hitting his prostate with such force that the universe exploded in his chest.  


"FuckFuckFUCK," he repeated between clenched teeth, louder and louder.  


The hoarse laugh, transfixed by lust and passion, caressed his ear and a new onslaught renewed the explosion of pleasure. Fëanor howled and his lover covered his mouth with his, urging him to shut up. In response, the prince dug his nails into the shoulders of the other and let himself be fucked with all the energy.  


It was a delicious torture. His mysterious lover was an artist: as soon as he attacked his point of pleasure with violent thrusts as he moved in slow circles that barely allowed the tip of his cock to rub against his center. Fëanor was hard again, his sex pulsing between their bodies. The other man's fingers dug into his hips, immobilizing him as he concentrated on taking his center with each assault. The craftsman tensed, his sphincter throbbed, twisting his lover's cock and his own cock shivered starting a second volley of fluids that felt fresh on his burning skin. As if that were his signal, the other male surrendered at his own pace, losing all control that he maintained and in the midst of muffled moans, he filled Fëanor’s body with his seed.  


For a few long minutes, they remained embraced, still the half-hard cock of the lover filling prince’s body. On the other hand, Fëanor began to slide towards the kingdom of Irmo, totally satiated and stunned by the experienced pleasure.  


When his lover untangled himself from his arms and left his interior, Fëanor muttered a protest. The deep laughter - again in self-control - resounded softly above his head.  


The other elf set Fëanor on the bed and half covered him with the sheet. With one hand, he brushed the hair from the prince's face and pressed his lips against his.  


"Happy Harvest, my prince", he muttered for the first time.  


Fëanor made a gesture as if to restrain him; but his tired hand just waved in the emptiness.  


::::::::::::::::::  


Finwë was happy to have all his family reunited for once. Best of all, Fëanor had not tried to offend his entire family to death and Fingolfin had not tried to drag his half-brother into a fight. The king supposed that part of the passivity of his firstborn was due to a certain fatigued air that he noticed, as if he had not slept well.  
Finally, after the first fruits were picked and passed in baskets around the circle for everyone to savor, Finwë approached his son, who with a glass of wine in one hand, watched the young people gather in the center from the square to start the dance.  


"You are distracted, my son", commented the king, resting a hand on the shoulder of his firstborn. "A new project?"  
"An investigation", Fëanor explained, observing with interest the dancers: most of them were the offspring of the noblest families and some almost lived in the palace due to their obligations as entourages of the princes of the Royal House.  


Guiding the dancers of both sexes were Maedhros and Fingon; Fëanor's son gave Aredhel his hand while Fingolfin's firstborn danced with Galadriel. Although both elves guided their respective pairs with grace and skill, Fëanor perceived that rather than dancing with them, they seemed to dance "among them". He should talk to his son, the artisan reflected; Fingon was not a child anymore so Maedhros would keep dragging him everywhere. But now he had more important matters to worry about ... like finding an elf with lank long hair, nipple rings, a delicious cock and Tirion's slickest mouth. Nothing complicated. If only his father had ordered everyone to go nude to this year's Festival.  


"Are you listening to me?" Finwë's voice interrupted his reflections, forcing him to divert the attention of the dancers.  
"Sorry, father", shook his head; "you know I'm not used to the warm palace rooms and I did not rest much."  


However, he did not feel fatigued at all. In fact, he had slept like a baby after his mysterious lover had left him, leaving only the scent of sandalwood and citrus impregnated in his sheets and skin, along with the dry traces of shared orgasm. Even after hours, Fëanor retained the feeling of weightlessness that ecstasy left in its limbs.  


"Your brother complains about the same thing," said Finwë, in a ridiculous attempt to find a point of coincidence between his children. "He says that his rooms are too hot and sometimes he spends all his time in the library before locking himself in the bedroom."  
"In the library, of course", scoffed Fëanor, raising an eyebrow. "And leave the beautiful Anairë alone? Although those two look like princes of ice, really."  
"Fëanor!" reproached his father; but then a smile curved his mouth. "It's true that they are not as ... expressive as you and Nerdanel used to be; but…"  
"But at least they're still together", concluded the prince in his place, with displeasure.  


Finwë pressed his lips together, hesitating. Awkwardly, he patted the back of his beloved son, beginning to formulate conciliatory phrases; but his father's voice was lost in Fëanor's ears, dimmed by the deep sound that echoed behind him.  


_That laugh_. He would recognize that laughter anywhere, above the music of the Valar itself. With an effort, he forced himself to pretend to attend to his father while the laughter repeated itself behind him, surprisingly close. Slowly, pretending to notice the dance that was unfolding before his eyes - but ignoring completely the slight gesture with which Maedhros and Fingon intertwined their fingers before separating to open the circle following the dancing figures - he turned halfway to locate the owner of that sensual laugh.  


For a moment, Fëanor was about to drop the cup from his hand as he clenched his jaw so as not to utter a curse: within ten yards of him, Lalwen made a comment in a low voice, provoking the laughter of _her favorite brother_.  


**Fingolfin**. Fëanor watched with bright eyes the gesture with which Fingolfin threw his head back and laughed happily at her sister's comments.  


::::::::::::::::::::::::::  


With silent and agile step, Fëanor followed the couple that was advancing along the path. Lalwen hung on Fingolfin's arm as when they were teenagers: the Noldóran's daughter had inherited the petite constitution of the Noldorin women while her brother showed the high stature of his Vanyarin ancestry coupled with the hard, dark features of the Noldor. Only their eyes were the same silver-blue tone, so when they were young, both liked to pretend they were couple instead of brothers, thus frightening the suitors of Lalwen and the aspiring love of the second prince.  


For a moment, Fëanor felt envy of the understanding between those two: why Fingolfin laughed openly with his sister and had only come to him hidden in the anonymity of the shadow? And now that he thought about it, how close would the relationship between these two be? Would also Fingolfin have given his lust and passion to Lalwen? The ability of his mouth and the delicious torture of his sex? Fëanor clenched his teeth, recognizing the feeling of possessiveness that twisted his stomach.  


The craftsman saw the group of people at the end of the path that meandered in the garden and hurried to reach the couple. He knew that as soon as they mingled with the rest of the guests, Fingolfin would be met by Anairë and Finarfin with all certainty he would have some telerin story to tell his older brother.  


In front of them people was dancing in circles that turned happily. Fëanor thought he saw the coppery hair of his eldest son, as well as the hair braided with gold from his nephew very close. Beyond, he saw Celegorm and Curufin hovering around Aredhel as if they were seeking to keep everyone away from her. On a marble bench, Finrod, Turgon, and Caranthir argued too seriously for a party.  


Fëanor spotted Anairë and Eärwen walking towards the new arrivals and taking a step forward, caught Fingolfin by the arm and pulled him into the nearest circle of dancers. They got Lalwen's claim; but he did not stop, dragging Fingolfin through the dance to reach another path outside the celebration.  


When they arrived at the roundabout in which Indis's children played as kids, Fëanor turned on himself even before he stopped, forcing Fingolfin to stop abruptly so as not to collide with him.  


For a few seconds, they stared at each other. The youngest showed no sign of understanding the reason for his abduction and instead studied the expression of Fëanor as if preparing to be attacked.  


Fëanor glanced at him, detailing the elegant blue and silver attire, the hair carefully woven with blue and black pearls, the expression serene and almost supercilious. It was difficult to marry this image of _Prince of Ice_ with the male who a few hours earlier would give him pleasure - and take it from him - with the same passion of a quendë not domesticated by valarin laws. Inevitably, his gaze lingered on the broad chest that the tunic stood out, wondering if he should check that those metal rings were still there.  


Fingolfin lowered his eyelids, letting his black lashes brush against his high cheekbones.  


"Since my first vacation in Alqualondë," he said suddenly in a calm voice.  
"What?" Fëanor frowned.  
"The tendrils", said Fingolfin and opened his hands in an eloquent gesture. "Eärwen was the one with the idea. Anairë, Lalwen and she thought they were ... sexy." He pouted. "Of course it was not they who suffered the pain ..."  
"Why?"  


Fingolfin stopped and raised an eyebrow, disoriented.  


"Why did I put them on? I wanted to please them, of course. Everyone knows that Eärwen and I were somewhat tangled until Finarfin fell on his knees in front of her vowing eternal love ..."  
"Why me?" He growled impatiently. "Why right now?"  


Fingolfin made a gesture of understanding. After a moment, he shrugged.  


" Why not? You are not exactly celibate." he half smiled, making it clear that he was aware of his half-brother’s sexual adventures.  
"You and I…"  
"Are brothers?" he mocked. "I clearly remember that less than a week ago you said that you did not consider me more your family than the boy who paddles on a Telerin ship."  
"You and I do not even get along", he corrected, fiercely.  


Fingolfin's smile was mischievous and sensual as he shortened the distance between them at a pace.  


"That is not true." He whispered, provocatively, moistening his lips. "There is at least one ... **situation** in which we are perfectly compatible ... _my prince_."  


Fëanor followed with his eyes the path of the tongue on the lower lip and the memory of that tongue on his cock made a knot in his stomach. Impulsively, he closed the distance between them and buried a hand in Fingolfin's hair to force him to throw his head back.  


"I'll wait for you today", he decided against his lips, sticking his body to Fingolfin's. "But this time I want to see you when ..."  
"I take you, my prince?" suggested Fingolfin, licking the lips and chin of his half-brother. "Can I ask that on this occasion I'd be on my knees before you and you take your pleasure from my body, my brother?"  


Fëanor's sex pulsed hard against his clothes and instinctively, he rammed his lover's pelvis.  


"Maybe I can please you", he admitted in a hoarse voice, "if you please me ... little brother."  
"I will make an effort, my prince."  


Fëanor swallowed dry, excited.  


"Say it again", he ordered.  
"My prince", Fingolfin repeated, moving to kiss the line of the jaw. "My prince."  


Fëanor narrowed his eyes, reveling in the sensation of that mouth on his skin as well as in the sound of the words, in the sensual and slightly ironic tone, in the certainty that it was provocation and adoration that incited Fingolfin. Unable to contain himself, he caught his lover's mouth in a ravenous kiss. A part of his mind said that his father would be surprised if he knew how satisfied his firstborn son was to have stayed in the palace the day before.

**Author's Note:**

> Do not tell me you did not see it coming ;)


End file.
